Tales from the Apartment
by Order of Arcadia
Summary: Bucky first began to find himself in Steve's apartment in D.C. Snapshots and story fragments. Post-CA:TWS, no slash, the Remembered AU.
1. Plums

_Plums_

Steve was grateful that he'd found Bucky when he did. The winter had come in bitterly cold, and as the temperatures dropped and snow piled up outside, Steve couldn't imagine his best friend enduring the cold out there on those streets alone.

But he wasn't alone. He lived with Steve, in the little apartment outside D.C. proper, and he generally made himself scarce and quiet if he could. Steve's task was to slowly, gently, lovingly coax him back out of that shell.

Spring dawned bright and sunny, and Bucky was adjusting. It's not so much that Bucky didn't understand the concept of wants and needs—nor that he'd forgotten how to express them. It was more that he knew these things, but years and years of torture and mistreatment had taught him to be afraid of speaking out.

So Steve had done his best to create an environment where it was safe, and even rewarded, for him to make his needs and opinions known. And Bucky was responding.

To an untrained eye, it might have been hard to spot; but to Steve, it was visible in the little things. It was the choices of color on cake frosting, the choices of books to read off of Steve's shelf, the choices of little things to do in his spare time—whether that was to play darts or write in his notebooks or sit by the window and watch people go by.

Bucky even showed preferences in the clothes Steve gave him, wearing some pieces as often as they were clean and hardly touching others at all. (Steve had yet to deduce whether this was because of comfort, familiarity, a sign of favorite colors, or some other factor, but he was determined to find out.)

And fruits. Bucky definitely had preferences in fruits.

"Steve?" he'd asked one day, stalking up silently behind him as he always did.

Steve would never get tired of hearing Bucky start conversations. Nor would he get tired of hearing his own name in his best friend's voice.

"Yeah, Buck?" he answered, turning around in the armchair to face him.

Nor would he get tired of saying that.

Bucky nodded mutely at Steve, acknowledging the reply, then turned and stared into the kitchen.

Steve couldn't see the kitchen from where he say, so he stood up, careful not to make too much noise and startle him. "What are you looking at, Bucky?"

He stood at his friend's side, and Bucky kept looking. Steve matched his gaze and studied the empty kitchen, trying to figure out what had changed and caught Bucky's attention.

"Oh, the fruit bowl?" guessed Steve.

The ceramic bowl was visible from where they stood. It had been mostly empty for several weeks over the winter, save maybe a few bananas. Steve had restocked it recently with oranges, apples, pears, and a bunch or two of grapes. Bucky was sure to have noticed the difference.

Bucky turned and fixed Steve with the serious, slightly petulant look that meant he wanted an explanation.

"Yeah, fruit's in season now," Steve explained. He shrugged one shoulder. "Stores carry it cheaper now that they don't have to import it from so far. It's usually in better quality, too."

Bucky had started to duck his head slowly. Steve smiled. He knew what that meant.

"Was there something you wanted, Bucky?" he asked, keeping his voice low and warm.

Bucky looked up.

_ Score._

"Name it," invited Steve. "I can run out and get almost anything now."

Bucky nodded, his eyebrows furrowed. He stared at his flesh hand and curled it in, as if approximating the size of the fruit in his hand. "Um..."

He shook that hand as if trying to jog the memory. "Puh..." he mouthed, then reacted to some kind of internal question. "Purple...?" he asked slowly, acting as if he'd like more words to describe it.

So, purple, and about the size of a small apple. "Plums?" guessed Steve.

Bucky's eyes lit up. "Plums," he whispered eagerly.

_ I want plums!_

Now _that_ put a mile-wide smile on Steve's face. He brought home a whole bag of plums later that day and watched, not wanting to interfere, as Bucky sniffed each one at the stem, then picked out three and washed them.

He looked so _normal_, just taking care of himself and rinsing off the little fruits one at a time, that Steve could have cried.

He leaned on the open doorway to the kitchen and felt like he stood on the edge of a blissful little world that wasn't his to touch, watching as Bucky sat down at the kitchen island with his plate of plums.

Steve didn't dare move. If Bucky remembered his presence, what if it burst the little bubble of normal life he'd finally gotten to touch?

Bucky bit into the first plum.

Steve would never forget the tiny smile that appeared on Bucky's face. He would never, _ever_ forget it, and he swore then and there that he'd do anything to put that same smile back on his best friend's face, even if he had to do those godawful USO shows all over again.

He loved that smile.

From that day forward, the fruit bowl always had plums.

* * *

**A/N: Welcome to Tales from the Apartment, your daily dose of Bucky being amnesiac and adorable and Steve loving his friend entirely too much. I have a bunch of story fragments like this one that were too small to be their own stories or one-shots, so I think I'm gonna compile them all here.**

**I am posting from Malaysia, where the FanFiction site is banned (eep!), so I'm using the app instead. My apologies if there are any format issues. **

**No promises for a consistent update schedule, but I'll get them out as often as I can. (If you can think of something sweet and everyday for Bucky to react to, drop a suggestion in the reviews, and I just might write it.) I hope you enjoy!**


	2. Peaches

_Peaches_

When the intercom buzzer went off, Steve couldn't have been prouder that Bucky simply looked up at the noise instead of tensing as if for an attack. He'd finally gotten used to it. Good.

"Weren't expecting visitors today, were we, Buck?" Steve set his sketchbook aside and leveraged himself out of the armchair.

Bucky stared at the door, but his posture wasn't hostile. "Sam?" he asked in his quiet voice.

"I don't know. I didn't invite him over today, but maybe he just dropped by for fun." Steve leaned on the wall in the hallway to slip on his sneakers and opened the door. "I'll be right back."

Bucky nodded and went back to watching the passers-by through the window.

There was no visitor, but on the steps outside the apartment was left a green plastic box with Steve's address on it. He let a smile break onto his face and carried the box inside and up the stairs.

Bucky usually didn't pay much attention when Steve brought in the mail, but he did look up in curiosity when Steve entered the apartment with a sizable green box in his arms. Steve took it right to the kitchen and set it on the floor, and Bucky followed along quietly.

"Got a delivery," Steve said by way of explanation when Bucky joined him in the kitchen. "I've been waiting for this."

Upon opening the box, he found a variety of carefully packaged fruits and vegetables. A confused and interested expression crossed Bucky's face, and he knelt down over the box to see.

"Plums?" he asked, his eyes roving the box's contents.

"No, no plums here. Got a couple other things instead." Steve was already unloading the fruit and placing them in the bowl or fridge where they belonged.

Bucky reached into the box with his right hand and picked up a peach. His eyes shot wide, and then he dropped it into his left palm to pet it with his right fingers. The metal hand definitely couldn't feel texture, but the flesh one could, and he seemed enthralled. He put the peach back and picked up another one, giving it the same treatment. "Steve."

Steve grinned. "Yeah, peaches. They're fuzzy. Isn't that great?"

"Not like apples," said Bucky, still petting it.

"Nope. Not smooth like apples. Not bumpy like oranges." He continued rinsing some other fruits in the sink as he explained, "That's the difference between peaches and nectarines. Nectarines look the same, but they're not fuzzy."

Bucky's eyes gained an intent but far-off expression, as they always did when he remembered something. He gave a soft, internal chuckle and focused on the fruit again.

Steve waited to see if he'd get an explanation, and when none seemed forthcoming, asked, "What is it, Bucky?"

Bucky gave Steve a pointed look. It broke into a grin almost like the one he used to have, and then he got up and headed for the knife drawer.

"What?" Steve couldn't help sounding a little defensive at being left out of the loop. "Bucky."

He was only half-scolding him. He didn't really mind. If Bucky didn't want to share a memory, he was asserting more independence, and that was always a good thing.

Bucky hopped up on a bar-stool and began to peel the peach, ignoring Steve.

Steve glanced at the still half-full delivery box and then back up at Bucky. "You're not going to help me put all this away, are you?" he asked, fondly exasperated.

Bucky shot a quick, almost meek glance over his shoulder, and stared at the box. A tiny grin spread on his face, and the twinkle returned to his eyes. "No." Then he went back to peeling the peach.

Steve sighed, put his hands on his hips, and smiled. He really couldn't be mad. Every time Bucky had a fresh memory, he was always more cocky, more defiant, more like that jerk from Brooklyn that never cut Steve a break—and he wouldn't trade it for the world in gold.

So he just knelt down over the box and punched Bucky's knee, since it was nearby. "Jerk."

His voice soft, fond, and almost bashful, Bucky whispered back, "Punk."

* * *

**A/N: I will never get tired of amnesiac Bucky looking at the world with wonder and being a jerk to Steve. **

**Reviews are peaches. **


	3. Garden

_Garden_

As the spring wore on, Steve noticed more and more windowsill gardens popping up on the neighboring apartments. There wasn't enough space for a garden proper anywhere on the block, but that didn't stop folks.

Adrianne, who lived a few doors down on the same floor, grew strawberries on her windowsill and was willing to sell a small bucket of them for a dollar and a little quick gossip. (Steve mostly sat and listened as she went on about her husband and grown kids, but fifteen minutes of slight agony was worth it for the fresh strawberries.)

So the year that Bucky came to stay at the apartment, Steve decided to give it a go. He remembered that his mother had a little garden back in the day; even though he had the opposite of a green thumb, Steve figured that if he just picked the plants that were hardest to kill and went from there, he would be fine.

Bucky had a habit of sitting by the window anyway, watching the traffic and pedestrians on the street below. Steve wondered if he did it as a kind of security measure, or just because he enjoyed watching people, but he wasn't about to pry. But he did plant the garden in the sill of Bucky's favorite window, and so it got to grow up around him.

There were lots of things that Bucky still remembered; from training, from instinct, or from buried memories. But in general, he was a little lacking in areas that had nothing to do with combat. So he watched with fascination as day by day, the tiny green shoots pushed up through the dirt and got taller and taller, eventually bursting into colorful flower heads that turned up towards the sun.

Bucky welcomed the new occupants of his windowsill and just watched the street in spite of them. But more fascinating than the flowers were the visitors they attracted.

In all that spring, there was a singular hummingbird that came to scope out their flowers. Bucky supervised it religiously, alert and expressionless like a cat. The bird zipped to the right—Bucky turned his head to the right. Zipped left—Bucky turned left.

When the bird noticed Bucky and hovered above the flowers to see him, Bucky narrowed his eyes and leaned in to get a closer look. The bird backed up slightly at the motion, then darted closer, dancing around just a centimeter or so—and Bucky's eyes shifting accordingly—as it and Bucky tried to make sense of each other. Then, it left, just as quickly as it came.

The whole thing took less than five seconds, and Steve wished he'd had his sketchbook on him to capture the moment. The next time, he did.

Bucky usually kept the screen and glass open when he sat by the window. There was a risk of insects getting into the house, but things like flies were knocked out of the air and fell dead by a swift whack from Bucky's metal hand, and he simply guided bees back out to the street after Steve explained that they're beneficial and shouldn't be killed.

Butterflies came to visit occasionally, and Bucky treated them with fascination and gentleness. It was late one sunny morning, when all the flowers had bloomed in full color and Bucky was watching the road with the window and screen open, that a butterfly missed the flowers and landed on his nose.

Bucky blinked rapidly, his eyebrows furrowing at the creature, and Steve gasped, scratching rapidly at his sketchbook. He'd already been sketching Bucky's profile, and it just needed the extra details.

"Don't move, Buck," he whispered. "Don't scare it off."

Bucky obeyed, but narrowed his eyes in confusion. The colorful wings spread right in front of his eyes, catching the light, and Bucky's gaze darted all over its patterns, taking in the colors.

Then, it fluttered its wings and flew away. Bucky sat up and leaned out the window, watching as the little line of color disappeared in the distance, and then he sat down again, his face softened with an expression of slight confusion and almost longing.

"Got it." Steve flipped the sketchbook around with a grin. There, in soft grey pencil lines, he'd captured the wide and wondering look in Bucky's eyes and the delicate creature sitting on his nose.

Bucky studied the portrait intently and seemed satisfied. But he turned to look out the window again, and then back to Steve.

"What is it, Buck?"

Bucky didn't answer immediately, as if he had to find the words. "Will it come back?"

Steve shook his head, turning the sketchbook back around to face him. "Probably not. That's a 'once in a lifetime' kind of thing."

Bucky looked thoughtful, processing this, and then folded his arms on the windowsill and went back to watching the street.

Steve touched up the sketch and later added color with pencils. Bucky would later learn to be embarrassed of the incident, but until then, Steve kept the sketch displayed on the wall with the rest of his favorite pieces, and eagerly told the story whenever anyone asked.

* * *

**A/N: I loved these two suggestions from a guest—"butterfly on the nose" and "stare-down with a hummingbird"—so I had to combine them. Since I can't log in to the site, I can't approve your review personally, but I definitely received it. Thank you very much!**

**Reviews are hummingbirds.**


	4. Music

_Music_

One of the first purchases Steve made after coming out of the ice was a record player.

He was initially surprised to see that they were still produced and sold, given the prolific amount of CDs and electronic music that he'd seen instead. He did some research (internet, very helpful thing) and discovered that in the modern world, records were usually the domain of audiophiles and disc jockeys, where their potential for organic sound was coveted over the audio compression typical in CDs.

Modern players were built for larger disks, and Steve even found one with USB and Bluetooth connectivity (figure that one out). But with the right equipment, they still played 78s, which was the most important thing.

He felt he'd never get used to seeing the music he knew marked "vintage" and sold in grainy, faded-color jackets. Some names were still big and well-remembered—like Crosby, Sinatra, and Garland. Others had faded away to near obscurity.

But he did manage to get his hands on a few Andrews Sisters 78s in good condition for under twenty dollars. Maybe it was a little selfish, but the decision was deliberate. He was hoping it would jog somebody's memory.

He distinctly remembered that before the war, Bucky had developed quite the crush on Patty Andrews.

The discs arrived in bubble-wrapped envelopes. Steve immediately knew what they were when he saw the logo for the online bidding store on the packaging. He immediately grinned, brought them inside, opened one, and set it in the player. Bucky sat in the armchair in a patch of sunlight, writing something in his notebook.

He immediately looked up, startled, when the sound of loud trumpets and big brass suddenly blared from the record player.

Steve laughed and reached for the volume. "I should turn that down," he said, hoping that counted as an apology.

The tune was energetic and rollicking. Bucky stared at the record player, eyebrows furrowed with a curious expression, and then he turned to Steve.

"Remind you of anything, Buck?" Steve asked lightly.

He got his answer when the Andrews Sisters started singing.

_Mr. What-cha-call-'im, what'cha doing tonight?_

Bucky sat straight up, eyes wide, and started blinking at the record player.

_Hope you're in the mood, because I'm feeling just right._

Steve couldn't help but laugh. He could see the gears turning in Bucky's head, and even if he didn't recognize anything, he was just delighted to be able to share something happy with his best friend.

_How about a corner with a table for two_

Bucky stood up and approached the record player slowly, setting his finger down on the clear cover. The disc was spinning underneath.

_Where the music's mellow and some gay rendezvous_

Bucky turned to Steve, who was already attempting to step to the time of the music and was failing miserably.

_There's no chance romancin' with a blue attitude_

Steve laughed sheepishly as he tripped over his feet again. "I still can't dance." But he crouched low to the ground and mouthed along to the next line—

_You've got to do some dancin' to get in the mood!_

"What are you doing?" asked Bucky.

Steve looked up. "Dancing."

_Sister What-cha-call-'im, that's a timely idea_

_Something swing-a-dilla would be good to my ear_

"Why?"

"Because it's fun."

_Everybody must agree that dancin' has charms_

_When you have that certain one you love in your arms_

Steve shook his head and chuckled, "You were always so much better at this than me."

_Steppin' out with you would be a sweet interlude_

_A build'er up for that would put me in the mood!_

Bucky looked thoughtful, then began to pace by the record player. Steve continued to attempt to scuff up the living room carpet.

_In the mood_

_That's it, I got it_

_In the mood_

_Your ear will spot it_

Bucky's steps were even and slow, but his right fingers were beginning to drum against his thigh in time to the music.

_In the mood_

_Oh what a hot hit_

Steve had finally found the rhythm, and Bucky looked up to watch him with a bemused look on his face.

_Be alive and get the jive_

_You've got to learn how_

Steve attempted to spin around at the end of the verse, lost his balance, and nearly fell over. Bucky reached out as if on instinct and caught him, dragging him up to his feet with a look like daggers.

"Sorry," Steve breathed, embarrassed.

The record had just continued on, regardless of them.

_Hep-hep-hep_

_Hep like a hepper_

_Pep-pep-pep_

_Hot as a pepper_

Steve got an idea, backing up and taking a loose hold of Bucky's side and hand. "Here. Just follow me." He couldn't dance well, but he could at least find the rhythm. He backed up, and Bucky followed him forward.

_Step-step-step_

_Step like a stepper_

_We're muggin', then huggin'_

_We're in the mood now!_

There was a brief interlude of trumpets. Steve didn't quite know what to do there, but he tried leading Bucky backwards in time when the singing began again.

_Mr. What-cha-call-'im, all you needed was fun_

_You can see the wonders that this evening has done_

Bucky had found his balance. His feet were clumsy and mechanical at first, but he was slowly making his steps lighter and imitating Steve.

_Your feet were so heavy that 'til they hardly could move_

_Now they're light as feathers and you're right in the groove_

When Steve felt confident enough that his best friend was getting the hang of it, he backed up, releasing Bucky until only their fingertips touched, and then he let him go.

_You were only hungry for some musical food_

_You're positively, absolutely in the mood!_

Bucky stood frozen in the middle of the carpet for a moment. Then he looked down at his feet.

_Sister What-cha-call-'im, I'm indebted to you_

_It all goes to show what good influence can do_

Bucky mechanically imitated the steps they'd taken earlier. Slowly, the movements became more fluid. He crouched slightly—bent his knees—stopped being so stiff in the hips.

_Never felt so happy and so fully alive_

_It seems that jammin' jumpin' is a powerful jive_

Bucky shut his eyes for a moment and seemed to be letting the music carry him, and when he opened his eyes again, he was moving even better than Steve, as if on instinct, and a particular gleam had come back into his eyes.

_Swing-a-roo has given me a new attitude_

_My heart is full of rhythm and I'm in the mood!_

Steve laughed and joined in, in his own klutzy way, and Bucky seemed to be discovering moves that his body remembered, even if his mind didn't, and he had a gleam of wonder in his eye as they pranced like idiots all over the living room carpet.

_In the mood_

_That's it, 'cause I got it_

_And I'm—_

_In the mood_

_Your ear will spot it_

_When you're—_

_In the mood_

_Babababa-di-li-bi-di-baba-bobo!_

Bucky tripped over himself and stared at the record player in surprise when he heard the scatting. Steve laughed harder than he'd laughed in several months, and Bucky turned to him with confusion and almost a smile.

_Be alive and get the jive_

_You've got to learn how_

Steve took Bucky's hands, and they went tearing up the carpet together, each one making sure the other didn't trip over into anything, and they were klutzy and uncoordinated but honestly, truly having fun.

_Hep-hep-hep_

_You're hep like a hepper_

_Full of—_

_Pep-pep-pep_

_You're hot as a pepper_

_And you step-step-step_

_Step, step like a stepper_

Bucky looked up at Steve with the first full, shy smile he'd had on his face since he came out of the rain, and it almost took Steve's breath away.

_From muggin'_

_And now we're huggin'_

_'Cause we're in the mood!_

The record ended with a fanfare of trumpets, brass, and drums, and Steve collapsed into an armchair, laughing for sheer delight. Bucky slowly ground to a halt, reluctant, and stared at the record player.

"Another?" asked Bucky in his quiet voice.

Steve grinned. "You wanna hear another one? Sure. I bought a bunch." He quickly sat up out of the armchair to retrieve the disks.

As he leafed through them and explained his choices, Bucky just looked on over his shoulder, and even if he didn't understand, Steve felt like they'd made a breakthrough like nothing else that day.

Sam would never believe it.

* * *

**A/N: As usual, Princess Starberry is back with the great suggestions! I went a slightly different direction with this one, since I've been doing a bunch of research on vinyl records and wanted to put it to use, but I hope this fulfills the prompt of Bucky getting to enjoy happy music for the first time. (Besides, I've low-key wanted to write Steve and Bucky dancing together to old music ever since I got into this fandom so shhhhh)**

**For the love of everything good, please look up and listen to "In the Mood" by the Andrews Sisters. (There seem to be two tracks by that name, so there may be some confusion, but you'll know it when you hear it.) It makes me grin just listening to it. Old swing and jazz is some of the most delightful stuff I've ever listened to.**

**As a consequence of my research, I now headcanon that 40's Bucky had a crush on Patty Andrews. She was the youngest of the Andrews Sisters, a natural entertainer, blonde, and very pretty. The Andrews Sisters were at the height of their popularity during WWII (they're the ones responsible for "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy", if you've ever heard of that one), and Patty was born in 1918, making her one year younger than our MCU Bucky. You just know our boy had a bit of a soft spot for her.**

**Reviews are records. **


	5. Rain

_Rain_

The day Steve brought in Bucky, it was raining.

A few weeks later, it rained again.

Steve was pretending to read a book, but he was mostly watching Bucky. The dark-haired man sat in the chair by the window, watching the raindrops as they hit the windowpane and slowly trailed down the glass.

He'd seemed to walk around in a haze when Steve first brought him in. Illness, undernourishment, and exhaustion will do that to a man. But ever since the haze had faded (thanks to three full meals a day and at least an attempt to sleep through the night), Steve noticed that Bucky always seemed alert, taking in his world with piercing eyes that darted around with the same intensity and energy with which they tracked the raindrops even now.

Steve finally gave up pretending and lowered his book. Careful not to speak too loud and startle him, he asked, "What'cha thinking, Buck?"

Bucky turned to him, and the alert, piercing eyes were fixed on his face. Then they shifted in thought, and Bucky turned back to the window.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. "The...water."

Steve kept his voice level. "The rain?"

Bucky looked at him, and then back outside, his eyes widening slightly. "Rain..." he whispered, as if testing the taste of the word on his tongue.

Steve leaned back with a sigh and listened to the patter of the raindrops himself. It was a calming sound—distracting him from the ache in his chest.

"It's outside," said Bucky. "I'm inside. I'm..." He frowned, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, as he tried to come up with the word. "Safe."

Steve recognized the now familiar twisting feeling in his chest. Gentle and low, he promised, "You'll always be safe from now on, Buck. Long as I have anything to say about it."

Bucky continued to watch the little drops racing down the windowpane.

Steve felt he would never quite get used to how much Bucky had changed. It was the same name, the same face, the same eyes—but the strong, confident best friend from his memories was so far removed from this broken, haggard man who didn't even remember the name of the word "rain".

Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever truly get his Bucky back.

But as he watched a little longer, however much of Bucky's face was still visible behind the curtains of dark hair, he realized that Bucky was truly happy. He was free, calm, and safe; even starting to talk more.

Steve reminded himself for the umpteenth time to be patient. There was no rush. Bucky would heal in his own time. That's okay.

So Steve shut his book, set it on the arm of the chair, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Want to go out there?" he asked.

Bucky looked up, a bit of trepidation in an otherwise stoic face.

"There's no wrong answer," Steve assured him.

Bucky looked out the window. Then he turned back. "Out," he whispered.

Steve pressed into his knees and stood up. "Okay, let's go."

Steve's umbrella was small and hardly enough to shelter them both, but it wouldn't have worked anyway. Bucky kept reaching his arm out to let the raindrops hit his skin, and then pulling it back. When Bucky tried to walk away, and Steve held the umbrella out over his head, Bucky shot a look over his shoulder with furrowed brows and then looked up at the inside of the umbrella.

"Not...don't..." he began, still unsure of his words.

"You don't want the umbrella?" Steve guessed.

The look Bucky gave him after that was relieved, but confirmed the guess.

Steve pulled the umbrella back and held it over himself. "Okay. Your choice."

He was glad, anyway. His shirt was getting soaked.

Bucky stood in the rain, his face upturned towards the clouds. For a moment, Steve was worried about the metal arm rusting, but he decided against saying anything.

He'd let him have his moment. Who knew when he'd have this chance again?

Bucky lifted his flesh hand to the sky, fingers spread, squinting against the raindrops that fell between his fingertips and hit his face. Steve poked his head out from under his shelter to see what Bucky saw, and he had to admit that the sight was stunning—little streaks of white that fell from a grey sky, all from a focal point high over his head, and the rolling clouds beyond.

Bucky shut his eyes.

The image would forever stay in Steve's mind, every detail caught by an artist's eye. Bucky's eyelids quivering as the raindrops hit the tiny, dark eyelashes and slid down his face. Water droplets on his nose and cheeks, and catching in the beginnings of a beard on his chin. His lips slightly parted and slightly upturned, so that Steve almost dared to think he was smiling.

And when Bucky turned to him, the dark hair hanging limp and framing his face, his eyes were wide and open and shining.

Steve couldn't help but smile. "Good day?" he asked gently.

Bucky looked up at the rain one last time, and then joined Steve under the umbrella. Though his friend was soaking wet, Steve put his arm around his shoulders just briefly for a small squeeze.

Bucky's voice was quiet when he whispered back, "Good day."

* * *

**A/N: It's raining today! That's good. It was getting hazy, and the rain washes it out.**

**Reviews are umbrellas.**

**Special message for Raven:**

Hooray! You found this story! All right, long block of replies incoming, since you've reviewed a lot of my stories since I ended Sleep. First of all, I'm so glad you finally got to see the FunkoPOP figures! I had altogether too much fun taking those pictures.

Your dad sounds like an absolute stinker. Sounds like we've got something in common!

The plane ride went about as well as it could. Sixteen hours over the Pacific Ocean is a doozy. But I'm here, and settled in, with lots of time to write, and I couldn't be happier!

I'm so flattered by your praise of The Run and Go. I never really felt that story was up to snuff, but so many people love and enjoy it that I'm starting to believe them. And the fact that it's that story that led you to me? Wow.

Oh, post-Winter Soldier Bucky is definitely a little creepy. I'm glad I was able to capture that. "On your left" is a delightful in-canon joke and I will never get enough of it. A chalupa is apparently something you can get at Taco Bell (nuts as to whether it's actually real Mexican food; knowing Taco Bell, probably not). It and the bendy straw were just something I came up with on the spot because Steve and Sam needed some funny banter. Steve doesn't want a bendy straw because he doesn't want to feel like a kid; but the joke pays off in the epilogue, as I'm sure you saw!

I've got a funny process when it comes to writing stories. It's usually the conversations that pop into my head first, and I write them down as "scripts": usually the first letter of a character's name followed by their dialogue, and some simple description of actions if I need it. The "scripts" can then sit for quite a while before I actually write narration for them. That's what took up fifteen pages before I'd even written The Run and Go, while the story itself was obviously at least twice as long.

Dead, Marvel dead, and Loki dead! Love it. I'm gonna start using that from now on.

Sharon got a woefully short end of the stick in canon. She had a lot of potential to be cool, but she just ended up being another lame love interest. After my friend theoriginalbookthief07 wrote her in a more likable light, I had to do the same. I figure that the only thing making the CIA more honest than S.H.I.E.L.D. is that it hasn't been infiltrated by HYDRA—at least that we know of!

I follow a Slavic youtuber who is constantly making communism jokes, and if you ask Sebastian Stan about his childhood, the first thing he will tell you is communism! I imagine that Natasha is much the same way. Always poking fun at it.

Hooray for Peggy, Bruce, and Thor! Don't worry, Steve will give Bucky all the hugs that he needs. I'm so glad you found my Bucky adorable and worthy of love, because he really, truly is. Even when he's glaring at Sam. The rivalry has already begun!

Bucky was seen buying plums from the market in Romania in a short scene in Civil War, and at the time I wrote that chapter, it was kind of a fandom meme. I still love it as an old in-joke. Apparently, plums are good for the memory too!

Peaches, butterflies, hummingbirds, dancing...all the cute things. Aww, I love the idea of a lizard climbing on Bucky's arm! They have a lot of tiny lizards here in Malaysia...fast little guys. Oh my goodness, how _would_ Bucky react to an earworm like Baby Shark? I'll have to think about that one. And oh boy, Darcy with her taser. I think Bucky needs to recover a little more before he encounters her. She's too powerful!

I do have a few more shorts here that I want to publish before Tales of the Apartment will be finished—but who knows, if inspiration strikes again, I might just add to it down the line.

Thank you for your well wishes! I am having fun in Malaysia. I hope you're doing well too!


	6. Worth

**A/N: Me: I'm kinda having a bad day.**

**Also me: *chants* ANGST ANGST ANGST**

**Warning for slight whump, traumatic nightmares, and a mention of vomit. Bittersweet comfort at the end for those who stick it through.**

* * *

_Worth_

It didn't take a week before it was firmly established that Bucky had horrific nightmares.

He was remembering things. With constant, gentle stimulus around the house to jog his memory—and without HYDRA's wretched electric shock to impede it—Bucky's brain was slowly untangling itself, bringing more to the front that had previously been suppressed or forgotten.

Most of the time, that was a good thing. Steve would never stop being thrilled whenever Bucky recalled something from their childhood or teenage years together. He rewarded those memories, as best as he could—praised Bucky and filled in the blanks and offered tiny treats if he could. He knew that it was taking a risk, in Bucky's fractured mind, to reveal that he remembered anything, and Steve wanted to be sure that Bucky always felt safe.

But when the sun went down and the lights went off, it seemed the darker and crueler of his memories were more eager to come to play.

He'd woken up screaming, the first night after Steve brought him in, and had only gone to sleep again after he'd been talked down and held tightly until he felt safe. It had broken Steve's heart at the time; he hadn't considered that it would go on to be a nearly nightly occurrence.

Nor that it would get much, much worse.

He relapsed, sometimes. Lashed out like the Soldier again when the memories of his conditioning and his handlers were too real, too close. He'd pinned Steve down with the metal arm once, a wild look in his eyes, and had drawn his other fist back for a strike before Steve choked out enough words through his closing windpipe to get him to remember where he was.

Bucky had been horrified. He said nothing—even less than he normally did—and hid his face in his hair for the next few days.

The bruises on Steve's neck took a week to fade.

With instances like that under his belt, Steve decided that anything less severe could be considered a blessing. He counted every good moment all the sweeter, if it meant that Bucky was happy—rather than the other thing.

They'd watched Lord of the Rings that night. Sam had insisted on the extended edition, claiming that "there is no other way to watch it, and I'll fight"; but with two disks to each movie in the trilogy, it was an undertaking to watch it all.

They'd taken it in shifts over the past few weeks—an hour or two on the nights that Bucky was feeling well enough after dinner to watch some elves, dwarves, hobbits on an adventure—and had finally made it to the last installment, nearing the end of the story.

Bucky woke up from a nightmare. Steve was expecting it at this point.

It wasn't the worst of nights, but it was a bad one enough to be significant. He woke up screaming, a blood-curdling howl as if from torture, and then vomited into the bedroom trashcan. Steve got there in time to find Bucky perched on the edge of the bed, breathing like a racehorse, his elbows on his knees and head between his hands.

After picking the pieces of his heart off the floor for the umpteenth time, Steve had fetched a glass of honey lemon tea, cleaned up after Bucky, and sat with him with their backs against the bed-frame until he'd calmed down.

Steve was running a hand back and forth across his friend's shoulders—constant enough to be grounding, but distant enough to not smother him. Bucky had pulled the rumpled blanket around his shoulders, still shivering, even as he cupped his hands around the hot mug and bent over the steam.

"Why are you doing this?" he'd finally croaked.

Steve looked up, his surprise dulled by a sharp ache in his chest. Bucky rarely started conversations; but Steve wasn't sure he liked where this one was going.

"It's—I'm—not worth fighting," Bucky whispered. He shivered from something besides the cold and bent over his mug, the dark hair hiding his face like a curtain. "Not worth it..."

Steve put his head back on the mattress and gave a deep, bone-tired sigh. It was full of heartache—and somehow, as an idea came to him from the gentle dark, still determined.

"You remember what the hobbit, Sam, said about heroes?" he asked lowly. The film was still fresh in his mind, the last thing he'd seen before going to bed. "About those people who keep fighting until the sun shines out the clearer?"

Bucky paused, lifting his head just an increment. Then, without looking at Steve, he nodded.

Steve took another deep breath, and then declared—to himself, his friend, and the whole world who cared to hear it—"Well, guess what, pal. I'm fighting 'til the sun shines too."

He reached his arm around Bucky's shoulders and held him loosely, rubbing Bucky's shoulder with his thumb, and continued in a far-away whisper. "Their world was jacked up by the Eye, by Sauron, but that didn't stop Sam. You remember? He said, 'There's good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.'"

He fell quiet. Bucky had thus far been a little rigid under his touch—still unsure and anxious—but ever so slowly, he lowered his head onto Steve's shoulder in a sign of trust.

Steve turned his head and pressed his lips into Bucky's hair. With a gentle fierceness—gentleness for Bucky, and ferocity for anything and anyone who would challenge it—he whispered, "James Buchanan Barnes, there's good in you yet. And it's worth fighting for."

He stayed with Bucky that night, and he would continue to do so any night it was needed from then on. However long it took, whatever it required—he'd be there, and he'd fight for his friend until the sun shone out again.

'Til the end of the line.

* * *

**A/N: The extended edition is the _right_ way to watch Lord of the Rings and you can pry it from my _cold dead hands_. Hot water, a spoonful of honey, and a splash of lemon juice is also a very good, natural tonic for calming the stomach. **

**Reviews are honey lemon tea. **

**A message for Raven: **I love listening to the rain! Being in it isn't a bad deal for me either, as long as it's not a torrential downpour and I'm not actively trying to stay dry.

Considering Bucky's arm has been exposed to water many times in the movies and hasn't shown any damage, I have to assume it doesn't rust. But I don't know for sure. There are also plenty of fics about Bucky getting his tongue stuck to the arm when it's cold...I happen to recall one where Clint got his tongue stuck too!

Go ahead and try scripts! It's probably not for everybody, but it works for me.

I did not come up with all the puns myself; I think most of the ones in Part One came from an Avengers Puns Facebook page, and most of the ones in Part Two I made up myself. Thank you for your praise of Bored with Puns and my little flagship fic, Do You Want Some Milk!

I'll pass your praise on to Li'l! Exploding Kittens is a real game. It is wild. Highly recommend.

Napkins is one of my sadder fics, but I'm fairly pleased with it on that front. It's hard to find hug fics, and that's exactly why I will keep writing them until the day I die!


	7. Painting

_Painting_

Steve sketched and painted in his free time.

He'd invested in an easel and canvas and a variety of paints, but that was only for when he was feeling particularly inspired. More prolific were the slowly filling sketchbooks that were gradually starting to take over the house.

Steve sketched almost whenever he had a chance to sit down; he had as a kid, and he had in the war, and by now it had become a kind of habit. It was a journal of sorts—a record of thoughts, or of emotions, or of a single thing that caught the light just right on a particular day. And ever since he'd found Bucky and started a quiet little life in the apartment, Steve had lots of time to sit.

It was otherwise an unremarkable day, when Steve was experimenting with watercolors on canvas, that Bucky came to ask about it.

Well, he didn't exactly ask.

The living room was quiet and sunny, the record player softly lilting in the background just over the ambient noise of cars on the street below. Steve had the canvas by the window, and he was attempting to capture the complex layers of clouds in the blue sky.

Bucky sat on the other side of the room. He hadn't moved from his vigil by the window for a few hours. When Bucky lifted his head, Steve didn't look up from the canvas, still concentrating on layering colors.

Bucky observed for a little while and then approached slowly. He sat down nearby, a little out of Steve's way, and seemed to be waiting for something.

Steve finished a long line of darker color along the underbelly of a cloud, and then swirled the paintbrush around in the cup to clean it. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Hi, Buck."

Bucky jutted his chin out a little at Steve in acknowledgment. Then he turned his head, glancing briefly at the canvas, and looked back at Steve.

He understood the implicit question. "I'm painting. Just trying to pass the time." Crouching down a little, he pointed out the window and continued lowly, "The storm this morning left some fantastic clouds right on the edge. See how it catches the light? I'm just trying to capture that."

Bucky moved slightly to get closer to Steve's point of view. He looked out the window, then back at the painting, then out again, then back.

"There's..." Bucky's voice was low, rough from disuse. He pointed a shaky finger at a cumulus cloud on the painting, his eyebrows furrowing. "Um." He made tiny swirling motions. "More."

"Yeah, more shadows. A lot of texture in that one. Good catch. I need a different grey, but I was just about to put those in."

Steve stood up to resume his work, talking idly as Bucky sat on the floor between the window and the easel. Art was something he loved, and he didn't get much chance to talk about it with anyone else.

"There's lots of different kinds of paintings, too. Still life captures things as they really are, and then there's stylized, cubism...I'm going kind of impressionist here, but that's just because you can't get very sharp detail with watercolors. Actually—have you seen my other paintings yet?"

Bucky had turned his head, and he quirked an eyebrow slightly downwards at Steve.

"You haven't. Hang on—you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. I'll be right back."

He left Bucky in the living room for a moment and then returned with some of his earlier pieces in his arms. Most were in simple wooden frames for safe-keeping; the smaller ones were kept alongside each other in folders. Bucky hadn't moved, and he looked up at Steve expectantly.

"Here. Look." Steve knelt on the floor and shuffled through his pieces. "Here's one with realism. I remembered that funny-looking tree we saw in the park, and wanted to see if I could paint it from memory. I think I got pretty close.

"This one..." He pulled out another piece—a shapeless form of smoothly blended colors, most of them bright, but a few darker blues and greys along the edges—and hesitated slightly. "This one is abstract. It's not of anything particular, but...I wanted to capture what it feels like to see the sun come up in the morning. Especially when there were bad dreams that night, and...you're just glad to leave it behind."

Bucky's attention hadn't wandered. He was still staring at the paintings in Steve's hands with an almost comically serious expression.

Steve was sorting those pieces back into the folder again when an idea struck him. "What if—do you want to try this? You can borrow my supplies and see if you like it. It might be something better to do than stare out the window all day."

Belatedly, he realized that he'd asked a "do you want" question—Bucky was the worst with those—because the otherwise neutral and calm expression in Bucky's eyes slowly became stormy and frenetic. He frowned at his hands, then tipped his head and glanced up at Steve through his hair, as if trying to figure out what he wanted.

"There's no wrong answer, Buck," Steve assured him with the quietest sigh. "I just enjoy it. Maybe you will too."

Bucky stared down at the cataloged paintings for a while. Then he looked up at the easel. Finally, slowly, he nodded his head yes.

And that's how Bucky took up painting.

It was an interesting process for Steve, watching his best friend stagger through the beginning stages of the craft. Bucky had never been the artist back before the war; Steve was always teaching him new things thanks to the amnesia, but in this case, Steve felt like he got to watch his friend genuinely learn something new.

And just like all beginners, Bucky was a disaster. He tended to destroy the brushes and mix the paint together and he had to be reminded to wash between colors. Steve eventually gave up stressing about the bent bristles and just bought Bucky his own set of paints—and easel, canvas, and sketchbooks while he was at it—but he did his best to be patient. _Bucky's learning_, he told himself, _it's_ _okay_.

At first, Bucky just painted simple things. A tall pink blob, a green line, and a yellow amoeba on the top for a flower in a vase. Two red rings, a blue circle, and a white star in the middle for Steve's shield. He started to get more complex, attempting things like the fruit bowl and shadows.

But Steve noticed that one day, Bucky sat staring at the blank canvas for some time, his eyebrows furrowed—and when he slowly picked up the paintbrush with a shaking hand, he dipped it in the black. After he'd been working for some time, a little crease crept onto the bridge of Bucky's nose, and he was almost scowling as he held the paintbrush in a fist and slashed it back and forth across the canvas.

The painting was of several black, vaguely person-like shapes with red eyes, all ringed around the edge as if they surrounded and looked down at the viewer. Bucky had taken red and dragged it across the still-wet paint, distorting the shapes with angry, fiery streaks.

"What is this, Buck?" Steve asked quietly. It was all he could do to keep his voice from shaking.

Bucky was staring at his knees, looking equally anxious. "Them," he whispered.

Steve wrote _Them_ on the back of the canvas with pen.

There were other paintings like this one. A man-like shape with no head and no left arm; Bucky titled it _James_. Angry red and orange blotches crackled with black and greenish-grey; when Steve asked what he wanted to call it, Bucky didn't answer, but anxiously rubbed the seam on his shoulder where the metal arm met his skin.

He learned the techniques too, as time went on. He would use the lighter colors first, clean his brushes between colors, and let things dry before he painted over them. But it was a gamble every time whether Steve would see a picture of a bird or something out of nightmares when Bucky turned the canvas around.

A giant, silver-grey hand holding a person-like shape to the ground; _Prison_. A tiny person, bent down under the weight of blackness above him and on every side; _Alone_. A variety of weapons like guns and knives, all of them broken in half; _No_.

Then came the fateful day when Steve suggested they paint portraits of each other.

He'd meant to gauge how far Bucky's skill in realism had progressed. Bucky was getting more adventurous with his subjects, but a human face was difficult, and Steve wanted to push his skills a little and teach him the human form.

They were working close to each other, but at an angle so that the other's work was obscured. Steve put a sketch down with a few quick strokes—Bucky's face was a familiar one, practically flying off the pencil—and set on painting.

Bucky was still staring at the canvas. As Steve watched from the corner of his eye, he seemed to make a few false starts, then scowled and got frustrated every time.

Steve wasn't sure if he should have been nervous when Bucky picked up the black. But he seemed to stay busy for the next hour, so Steve just left it alone.

When they were finished, Steve took a deep breath. "Ready?" he asked gently.

Bucky's chin was tipped down to his chest slightly, but he nodded.

"Okay. Here's mine."

He flipped the canvas around.

Bucky wasn't the kind to emote overmuch, but as he watched, Steve still caught every minute detail of his face—his eyes darted around, taking it in, then squinted slightly, and then widened just a tad; and every muscle in his face went slack with awe, and the lower lids of his eyes jumped up in some chest-deep emotion that Steve couldn't name.

It was a photo-realistic painting—or close to it, the best that he could do in an hour. And it was an expression that Steve knew well, the same wary and guarded and watchful one that Bucky wore on his vigils by the window.

There was a melancholy to it—his chin tucked in slightly toward his chest, head bowed, and a haunted pain in his eyes and the faint lines of wear on his skin. But Steve had painted his gaze turned upwards, catching specks of light in the ocean-blue irises—looking up.

He'd been looking up ever since he came in out of the rain that night. Steve only felt it was right.

Bucky gingerly took the canvas in shaking hands. Steve could see his adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"I...keep it?" he mumbled.

Steve felt like he'd been hit by a brick wall. Bucky never asked for anything, at least not without long moments of hesitation, but something about this had made him bold enough to dare it.

"Yeah," Steve finally choked out. "Yeah, Buck, if you want it. It's yours. There's a few more things I could do to touch it up, but...yes. It's yours."

Bucky nodded slowly, but after another glance at his own canvas, his face fell. "Mine...it's not as good."

"It's yours, Buck," Steve answered gently. "I'll like anything you make for me."

Bucky looked up timidly and nodded. He set the painting in his hands aside—handling it like it was fine porcelain, or made of paper-thin glass—and handed Steve his own.

Steve was confused for a moment. And then, he felt like he would cry.

Bucky had covered his canvas completely in black paint except for a tiny white spot in the middle, and he'd written in that spot with pen, _Steve_.

* * *

**A/N: And now, after an unexpected hiatus, back to your regularly scheduled fluff and emotions.**

**Reviews are paintings.**

**Replying to Raven:** *gasp* A travesty! She has been deprived of the Extended Edition! It is my greatest wish that you should witness the best movies of all time for yourself, fair friend. May time and the DVD prices be in your favor!

Thank you for the cookies! I have to admit, the real treats are these sweet reviews!

Eep! It's already October! A Christmas story, huh? I didn't have one in the works—and I'm honestly horrible at posting things on time r.i.p.—but now that you mention it, I am rewriting a lot of the latter MCU timeline for the Remembered Arc, and it would be fun to write a Christmas story with all of Bucky's new friends at the end of Phase Esopus...no promises for sure, but you're giving me ideas!

**Replying to guest:** Hello! Unfortunately, it was years ago that I read that one story where Clint gets his tongue stuck to Bucky's arm, and I must have lost it since, because it's not in my favorites! You'll have to try searching for it in the archives, haha. You'll probably have as much luck finding it as I will!


	8. Staircase

**A/N:** **Me: disappears for over three weeks**

**Also me: comes back and hits ya'll upside the head with angst**

* * *

_Staircase_

Steve never thought things would come to this.

It was all he could do not to charge down the stairs of his apartment building and physically block Bucky from the door to the outside. Steve's knuckles creaked and turned white as the gripped the handrail, five steps from the ground floor and Bucky.

"What are you doing, Buck?" he asked gently, and tried not to sound like his heart was actively breaking.

Bucky spun around, guilt and fear and utter weariness etched into every line on his face. He was so _tired_. Steve could see it. So tired of fighting the Soldier, fighting the programming, fighting HYDRA's grip on his mind.

"No...no," Bucky murmured, backing towards the door and thudding against it. "Steve...Rogers...target, elimin—no..."

"Bucky, it's okay." Steve tried to keep his voice low as he sank onto one of the stairs. "It's bad, isn't it? It's loud again? You're safe, Buck. We can fight it."

Bucky's flesh hand gabbed a fistful of his dark hair, and he gave a pained, miserable whimper. "Can't." He pressed his body against the door, whispering, "Can't do it, can't stop him. Got to take him—" He gripped the knob of the door with his left hand. "Away. Can't hurt you..."

"You won't hurt me, Bucky..." Steve tried.

"But you're my mission." It was the first complete sentence he'd said all day, and it came with a fire in his ocean-blue eyes that almost knocked the air from Steve's lungs. "If I finish it..."

Steve felt just terrible. Here Bucky was, trying to protect him as best he knew how—but if that was protection, Steve couldn't stand being safe.

He didn't want his friend to go. But he wanted even less that the man they'd used as a gun, a _slave_ should have to live by another order ever again.

"I...can't stop you from walking out that door, Buck." The words just _hurt_ to say, hurt so badly. "I just..." Steve clasped and unclasped his hands between his knees. "I guess I just hoped you'd stay."

Bucky's expression looked like that of a drowning man. "Why?" he asked.

"Because—you're worth it," Steve tried, and he meant it. "Because you're my brother...because I love you. Because...I said end of the line, and I promised."

Bucky had let go of the door. He just stood there, drinking in Steve's words with a wide-open, desperate look.

"He's loud," said Bucky.

"But you're stronger," returned Steve. His face broke with an unhappy laugh. "I thought we had him on the ropes, Buck, and we'd have him lyin' in the ring in no time."

Bucky shook his head, stumbling up the first stairs. "Can't do it. Not alone."

"But you're not alone."

Bucky stared into his face, then stumbled up the next two steps and threw his arms around Steve's waist, breathing like the rhythm of a freight train.

"Hey. Hey. I've got you," Steve soothed him, wrapping both arms around his shoulder and screaming internally from relief. "I got you, Buck, I'm here. You're okay. I'm here."

Bucky's heaving breaths turned to something like sobbing, and after some time he lost energy, slumped into Steve's lap, and slept.

Steve took a deep breath before whipping his phone out of his back pocket. He pressed the speed dial for Sam Wilson, but paused with his thumb over the call button when he realized he didn't even know what the emergency was.

_But Bucky tried to leave and if he stays he might kill me and I don't want to die but I don't want to lose him and now he's sleeping on me and I don't know what to do!_

He took a few deep breaths, counted back from ten like Sam had taught him, and when that didn't work, started counting back from fifty before he lost patience.

It struck him how peaceful Bucky looked, slumbering on his lap with all the burdens of his cares lifted, just for a moment. Steve had to smile, and he shakily pulled a stray brown hair out of Bucky's mouth and tucked it behind his ear.

_Gee, Buck. I'm really a wreck when it comes to you, aren't I?_

Steve ran his fingers through the unruly brown hair, careful to avoid any tangles. He spread his palm open on Bucky's back, letting it rise and fall as Bucky just breathed.

"I love you, Buck," whispered Steve, hoping the words would pierce through his dreams and fend off the nightmares. "I love you and your messed up head. As long as you're here, I promise you'll be safe. Please don't leave..."

* * *

**A/N: Hi, all! Sorry for the wait. Coming back from vacation and getting back on one's normal schedule is...confusing. As an apology for the long hiatus/reward for your patience, I have three chapters for you today, and the next two are much happier than this one, heh. I hope you enjoy them! **

**Reviews are one more stair.**


	9. Cards

_Cards_

As far as Steve knew, Natasha was busy finding a new cover story; perhaps disappearing somewhere in Europe. But she must not have gone far, because one day a few months into Bucky's stay at the apartment, she showed up unannounced with a deck of playing cards.

"Hi, Rogers," she said as soon as he opened the door.

Steve tried not to show too much shock. Of all the people he'd expected when the intercom buzzer sounded, Natasha wasn't one of them.

"Hey. Everything all right?" he asked as he held the door open.

"Of course. Can't I come visit my friends when I want?" she asked, waltzing inside the building like it was no big deal.

He couldn't help but notice that her hair wasn't the dull ginger anymore; it was a deeper, more fiery red, and the natural curls were coming back.

Steve shook his head and shut the door as she started to climb the stairs. "I thought you were trying to disappear."

"I thought you didn't want me to go," she returned, looking over her shoulder with a twinkle in her eye. But there was something else in her expression too—a rare softness, as if she appreciated her company being genuinely wanted.

Steve smiled and started to climb the stairs after her. "I'm trying to give people their space."

"It's okay, Steve. You can tell me that you don't need other friends while he's here."

There was a teasing edge in her voice, so he knew she meant no harm, but it still made his face fall slightly.

"No," he answered, and unlike her, his voice was quiet and serious. "Actually, now that he's here, I need all the help I can get."

She paused on the staircase, searching his expression. He noticed some trace of worry in her green eyes.

Trying to change the subject to something less personal—and failing slightly—Steve asked, "What are you doing here, anyway? We're not the most exciting company."

Natasha smirked and, with a flick of her wrist, produced a boxed set of playing cards from some secret spy pocket in her jacket. "I wanted to teach him to play cards."

And with no further explanation, Natasha marched up the rest of the stairs and into Steve's apartment.

Steve reminded himself that he should stop trying to figure out super spies and just followed after her.

Bucky had been reading, curled up on his favorite spot where the sunlight bathed the side of the couch, but he was already staring at Natasha with a curious, scrutinizing expression by the time Steve entered the house.

"We've got company today, Buck," Steve said—mostly just to let Bucky know it was okay, and he didn't need to be on his guard—as he took off his shoes and shut the door behind them.

Bucky's eyes flicked to Steve briefly, and then, with a more relaxed expression, back to Natasha.

"Hi." Natasha wore the subtle, trouble-making smirk that Steve had learned to fear. She knelt by the coffee table across from Bucky and opened up the card box, spreading them with a flourish over the surface of the table. "Shall we play a game?"

A short explanation and a few games later proved that the former Winter Soldier was exceptionally good at solitaire.

He seemed to be enjoying himself, Steve had to admit, as Natasha walked him through the involved strategies and scoring rules of cribbage. Though he approached the task with the same laser focus that Steve had recognized in battle, there was nonetheless a relaxed air to his posture, and Steve could almost imagine that his best friend was enjoying the mental exercises and competition against someone who wouldn't hurt him.

"And that's a hundred and twenty-four points altogether. You won a game." Natasha smiled and gathered up her hand. "Good job. Want to play again?"

Steve held his breath.

But after only a moment's hesitation, and a furrowed brow, Bucky took the deck and shuffled it just like Nat had showed him how.

There was a little tinge of victory in Natasha's smile as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Great. Don't think I'm going easy on you, though. It's muggins this time."

Bucky briefly looked up, and Steve barely dared to imagine that he narrowed his eyes and the corner of his lips twitched up just a little.

Steve felt like someone had handed him the moon. He got an idea and retrieved his phone from where it was charging in the kitchen. "Got any games for four, Nat?"

She looked up and smiled. "Sure. The more, the merrier."

Steve grinned and punched the speed dial. "I'm gonna tell Sam how good you are at cribbage," he told Bucky, raising the phone to his ear.

Bucky stared at him for a long while before a slight pinkish tint came to his cheeks, and he turned away, studiously focusing on the cards in his hand and hiding his face with his hair.

Natasha grinned at him until it showed her teeth, then raised her eyebrows smugly at Steve. "Do I have good ideas or what?" she seemed to be asking.

Steve shook his head, but he had to smile. Yes. Yes, you do.

Turns out Bucky was good at poker too.

* * *

**A/N: I'm telling you, I keep trying to write Sam coming over to the apartment to hang out with Steve and Bucky, but he never wants to show up. What's up with that, Sam? Whaddya have against me, Sam?**

**Sigh. But anyway, just imagine Sam getting progressively more and more frustrated as Bucky continues to best him at poker, with Steve and Natasha trying not to snicker in the background (with varying degrees of success), and you'll have a good idea of how that game went.**

**Reviews are cards.**


	10. Apples

_Apples_

Steve had been telling the truth when he told Sam that most of his meals before the twenty-first century had been boiled.

Perhaps it hadn't been true for everyone during the Depression; no, some of them didn't have anything to eat at all. But it was true for the Rogers household, at least. Especially considering how poor they were and the long hours that Sarah Rogers used to work, the finest cuisine Steve tasted in his childhood usually consisted of various ingredients from the local market or the garden dumped into a large pot and boiled until the life went out of them.

Soup was a staple; water was easier to come by than solid food, and the broth made the meal last longer than it otherwise would. For a little bit of variety, they turned to boiled vegetables and potatoes. Precious was the day that Sarah found a chicken for Thanksgiving.

Steve had to admit that modern foods were far more interesting—more colors, more cultures, more flavors that he'd never even dreamed of before. But there were times he got tired of it and longed for simpler tastes. They weren't much, but they felt like home.

Besides, it was all he knew how to make for himself. So rarely a day went by in Steve's apartment when the biggest pot wasn't boiling on the stove for dinner, or that yesterday's soup wasn't pulled out of the refrigerator for lunch.

Part of Steve sometimes hoped that the familiar foods would make something click in Bucky's mind. Unfortunately, he wasn't surprised that the bland flavors didn't jog any memories.

(Besides, the Barnes household had often had better foods to eat. Steve still remembered the first time he'd come over to Bucky's house for dinner, and the way his eyes had bugged out at the sight of steak.)

But there was one notable exception to the pattern.

Steve had found apples on sale at the grocer's. It wasn't in his original plan to buy so many, but some deep-set thrifty instinct didn't let him walk past the discount. So he bought a large bag, reasoning that he could figure out something to do with them.

He'd bought a few more supplies before heading home and starting the project by himself. Bucky had hidden himself in some corner of the apartment—likely his own room—and Steve had no desire to flush him out unnecessarily. But the walls were thin, and super soldier ears were sharp, so Bucky appeared to investigate the noise in the kitchen soon enough.

When the dark figure appeared in the corner of Steve's eye, he looked up and had to smile. There was Bucky, nearly swallowed in a hoodie jacket and huddled to one side of the kitchen doorway. "Hey, Buck," Steve greeted him softly.

The corners of Bucky's lips twitched up slightly, and his eyes wandered to the counter where Steve had spread out his project.

"Do I need to pass inspection?" Steve grinned at his own joke and then began to wash the apples under the faucet. "I'm making caramel apples. Found them on sale and figured we could have something familiar to eat."

Bucky had slid noiselessly over to the counter and picked up the ingredients to examine them. Steve continued in his work, but looked up when he heard a soft thump. Bucky's eyes were wide and glassy, and his flesh hand had slipped back down to the counter, an apple still clutched in his fingers.

Steve's shoulders went rigid by instinct, but he slowly reached to turn off the faucet, still keeping an eye on Bucky.

Flashback. This happened often. Bucky would space out with no warning, lost in a buried memory, and then return just as suddenly. Usually, those memories were nothing pleasant—Bucky would come out frightened, panicking, or fighting for his life, and Steve would have to calm him down and bring him back to reality.

Those were the worst ones. They seemed more prolific at night.

But Steve couldn't imagine how apples could have anything to do with Bucky's time under HYDRA, so instead of reaching for the shield, he stepped back and just opted for a wary calmness instead.

Bucky came back with a gasp, blinking hard as if to clear his eyes and whipping his head around to see the whole of the kitchen. The apple fell out of his hand and thumped onto the tile.

"Bucky. Hey." Steve put a hand on his shoulder, grounding him, and spoke as quietly as he could. "You're okay. You're safe. You're in the kitchen in my apartment. Remember?"

Bucky's eyes were wide, and his was breathing like a racehorse. But his expression slowly became less frantic, and Steve could see the gears turning in his head as he recognized the familiar details of the room. Finally, his breathing calmed to a normal rate, and he stooped to pick up the apple that had fallen on the floor.

Bucky looked sheepish. "It's...broken," he rasped, holding up the side with a soft, brown dent as if to apologize for it.

Steve chuckled and took the fruit from his hand. "That's okay. It's only bruised. We can cut that part off and eat the rest." He set it aside and slowly began, "Did you see something, Buck?"

Bucky looked nervous for a moment, but then he brought his chin in towards his chest and nodded.

"That's good. Do you want to tell me about it?"

Bucky paused, his eyebrows furrowing. He seemed to be searching for words. "There was a tree," he whispered. "By a house. It had..." He pointed to the apples, a little bit of a light returning to his eyes. "It had those on them."

Steve nodded, trying to contain his excitement. "A couple of our neighbors had apple trees. Sometimes they'd let us pick some when they got ripe."

Bucky gave a single nod, and then made a long shape with his hands. "A fence...underneath. I think you climbed it."

Steve raised both eyebrows. "That was way back, then. Those trees didn't get big."

Bucky frowned deeply, not quite looking at Steve. "You fell."

Steve winced. "Was it into some bushes?"

Bucky looked up, eyes wide. "Yes."

Steve laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Then that was Mrs. Polanski's, and those were her rose bushes. I think it was sundown by the time she got done scolding us."

Bucky was still frowning in thought, but then his nose wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth slyly started to twitch up.

"Hey, don't laugh at me," groused Steve. "I was picking thorns out of my trousers for the next week."

Bucky glanced away, failing to hide his humor like a child. As embarrassed as Steve was, there was still something about that that made his heart feel lighter than air.

"Jerk." Steve had to smile. "What else do you remember?"

Bucky had recovered. Slowly, and with a quiet kind of awe, he looked up and whispered, "I was small."

Steve's smile turned wistful. "Yeah." He knew that Bucky still had trouble with grasping that he'd once had a childhood—and moreover, that Steve had been a big part of it. He didn't want to rush Bucky into anything, but there was a part of him that longed for him to understand just how much affection and weight there was behind that fact.

Well, that would be a conversation for another day. Instead, he just set a hand on Bucky's shoulder and said quietly, "We've known each other for a long time."

Bucky looked up, and Steve could have sworn he caught the shaky and unsure beginnings of a smile. In any case, he'd caught the sentiment.

Steve picked up the apples and the little wooden sticks. "Want to help me make these?" he asked. "You don't have too; you'll get as many as you like when they're done. But it might go faster."

Bucky stared at the ingredients for a little while as if thinking it over—and then he looked up, a brightness in his eye. "I'll help."

"Great!" Steve immediately reached to demonstrate the process. "It's real simple. Just put them on the sticks, wrap them in the caramel, and we'll fit them all on a baking tray. I got these sheets of caramel to see if they'll save us a little work; if it doesn't taste good, we can melt our own next time. Maybe the bruised one we can cut into apple slices for a snack while we wait."

Bucky's metal arm whirred, and suddenly the wooden stick punched straight through the apple and poked out the other side. He blinked.

Steve was doubled over laughing for the next five minutes.

* * *

**A/N: I've started to notice that I have a kind of pattern to these jokes.**

**Bucky: applies way too much force for a delicate action  
****Bucky: is confusion  
****Steve: dies laughing**

**Oh well, it's cute. Raven suggested Bucky and Steve cooking something they'd both be familiar with, so I decided to go with a Depression-era treat, with a side of humor and good memories!**

**I'm starting NaNoWriMo for my own original novel tomorrow (AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH), so the next chapter of Tales from the Apartment will be the last one! Check back at my bio for some more information on my NaNo projext if you're interested. It's got werewolves and vampires and cute parent-child relationships and mystery and science and a bunch of dorks becoming a found family against their will. Yeah. Keep an eye out for that!**

**Replying to Raven:** Thanks so much for your patience! Sorry I disappeared so long. Steve is indeed Bucky's light at the end of the tunnel—or light in a dark place, or hope in hopelessness, or however you want to interpret that.

It is my greatest wish that you too should get to see the Extended Editions! Best of luck in your endeavors! I have listened to Two Steps from Hell and I love their stuff, especially Thomas Bergensen's.

Thanks for reviewing Fixed Pie Fallacy too! That one is becoming one of my favorites. Thanos deserves every mean nickname that Tony can give him.

Sometimes our dads have different interests than ours...and that's okay. My dad isn't even particularly big into Marvel, so he has a clean slate when it comes to his reactions to things. My uncle once said that he doesn't get why people are making such a big deal over an unimportant character when I asked him about _Bucky!_ Needless to say, that was one of the most unintentionally hilarious things anyone has ever said to me, LOL!

I'll pass your praise of You're No Specialist on to Mish. Thanks again! I look forward to hearing from you again soon. One more chapter on the way...


	11. Epilogue: Pancakes

_ Epilogue: Pancakes_

"Hey, Buck," somebody whispered from far away. "Wake up."

Bucky groaned, suddenly conscious of the light beyond his shut eyelids and the soft cloth surrounding him. He shifted slightly, burying his face into the softness under his head so that it would be dark again, and the distant voice chuckled.

_Steve._

Well, this was new.

"Yeah, I know." Something was smoothing back Bucky's hair and tucking it behind his ear. "You finally got some real sleep. But hey, it's your birthday."

_Birthday...?_

Bucky remembered the concept. It was the anniversary of someone's birth. Something at the back of his mind whispered that such a thing called for a celebration, but he couldn't think of any particular reason he ought to be celebrated. Still, he was a little more awake at this point, and pulled his face out of the pillow to crack an eye open at Steve.

Steve's blurry face wore a big smile. "I wanted to ask what you want for breakfast."

_Wants_. Bucky shuddered and burrowed back into the bedsheets. He felt like it would never get easier to choose things. Not that he'd forgotten how—or that there weren't things he _liked_ or _did not like—_but he was always terrified of answering the question wrongly, and being punished for it.

The Asset never had wants.

Steve sat down on the mattress, and Bucky felt it slope down under his weight. "It's okay, Buck," he whispered. "There's no wrong answer. It's your birthday. If you want something, and we don't have it, I'll go out and buy it. No big deal."

Bucky couldn't quite follow his line of reasoning, but he did at least understand that he wouldn't be punished.

And now that he thought about it, there _was_ one particular food they'd had for breakfast that he really, really liked...

"Pancake?" he mumbled, lifting his head out of the pillow.

Steve looked surprised, then beamed like the sun. "Pancakes it is."

Bucky sank back into the pillow and gave a shaky, tiny smile.

* * *

Steve was throwing things around the kitchen, bowls and flour and eggs and such, trying to prepare for the food. Bucky just watched from the doorway, a little bit confused.

_Birthday._ Was it really today? He glanced at the calendar on the wall, which Steve kept marked religiously, then snuck back into his room.

Shoved between the mattress and the boxspring was a tiny, secret pile of scrap papers and napkins that he'd been collecting since...well, since he started remembering again. The more recent napkins were closer to the front, but he dug back a little and found what he was looking for—an envelope, the dirty tread of a boot still stained on the back, and a quickly jotted note in the corner.

In half-fading pen ink, it read:

_Steven Grant Rogers born July 4 1918_

_ James Buchanan Barnes born March 10 1917_

_ Bucky_

March 10th. It _was_ today. These dates had struck him as important when he found them in the museum, and apparently they were important to Steve too.

Bucky would never quite understand that, but somehow it made him feel very warm inside.

* * *

Steve didn't just make pancakes. Steve made _all_ the pancakes. Plain ones, blueberry ones, chocolate chip ones with melty smiling faces. He made a stack of them and set it down in front of Bucky, who had been seated at the kitchen table and staring at his envelope for a while.

Bucky looked up, confused. There was a colorful, twisted stick of wax stuck into the top pancake, and it was on fire.

At first, Bucky thought it was a mistake. But then his brain supplied, _candle_, and he was even more confused.

"Make a wish," said Steve. He stood at Bucky's side and was smiling.

Bucky looked up with a glare. He'd already made one decision today. How come he had to make another one before breakfast?

Steve raised both hands, one of which held a matchbox. "Don't look at me like that. It's a tradition, trust me. You can look it up."

Bucky didn't answer. He just glared at the candle, which was apparently the reason he had to make a decision or his food would catch on fire.

"Okay, if it makes you feel better, it's also a tradition to keep that wish a secret. So you don't have to tell me."

With that, Steve went back to the stove to make more pancakes.

Bucky continued to glare at the candle. It apparently became nervous, and drops of colorful wax began to drip off the top of it and fall into his food. That only annoyed him further, because he was pretty sure the wax wasn't edible.

"Might wanna hurry, Buck. That thing's gonna burn down soon."

So, reluctantly, Bucky tried to think of what he could possibly want.

_I wish...to get myself back. To remember who I was. To figure out who I am now. I wish to be with Steve forever._

The wish did not make the candle stop burning. Bucky didn't know what to do next. He got frustrated, grunted, and crouched down with his chin close to the table to glare at it better.

"Oh, you blow it out," Steve said helpfully. "With your breath."

_Could have told me that earlier_, said a sardonic voice in Bucky's head, and for a moment he was surprised and wondered where it came from.

He tried to exhale, and the flame flickered and danced, but it didn't go out. Bucky wrinkled his nose at it.

Steve started laughing. Bucky looked up and growled at him.

"Okay, okay, sorry!" There were still hints of laughter in his voice, but he waved his open hand and the nylon turner at him in an attempt at peace. "Make a little circle with your lips." He demonstrated, sending a little puff into the air. "It'll work, trust me."

So after giving the candle another angry look, Bucky tried what Steve suggested, and it finally stopped burning and dripping into his pancakes. He pulled out the candle, scraped the wax off, and tossed it aside. Who would want to do that to their food?

As he dug into his pancakes, he could still hear Steve chuckling under his breath, but he was too busy eating to care.

_Happy birthday_.

The End

* * *

**A/N: I RETURN! How is everybody? I really intended to get this chapter out before NaNo took over my life, but November kinda got away from me, haha. I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, if you celebrate it, and I hope you all had a wonderful month!**

So the BIG NEWS is that I won NaNoWriMo this year for the first time(!) and in celebration and as a little thank-you to you all for being patient with me, I'm gonna be posting the first four chapters of the draft of RED on FictionPress for you all to read! EDIT: THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS ARE UP! Just search on FictionPress for Order of the Aether, and you'll find me!

So that begs the question: what is RED? Well, it's mostly a story about some dorks becoming a found family against their will disguised as an action/mystery story about werewolves and vampires and ancient government conspiracies. If you like my fanfic writing style of humor and gentle worldbuilding through everyday interactions, RED is pretty much that, but as a novel and with action scenes. I think you'll really like it.

**That's all I got for now! Stay tuned for a _much_ requested story—and one I'm very excited to write myself—the one where Bucky and Steve deal with their faith, Some Things Still Remain.**

**Reviews are pancakes. **

**A Message for Raven:** Oh, don't we all want to wrap Bucky up in blankets and keep him safe. I guess all I can do is keep writing these stories and feeding him pancakes. I hope your NaNo went well! Your story sounds really cool, and exactly the kind of thing I wanted to write as a young teen. I hope you had fun with it!


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